The British Isles
by Darbracken
Summary: A collection of drabbles involving England, Scotland and Wales from ancient to modern times. Second chapter contains France and Joan of Arc.
1. In younger years

_To everyone who has reviewed any of my Hetalia fanfiction so far.. thank you so much! o/ I love reviews, generally it gives me warm fuzzies and inspires me to keep writing and uploading. This may be updated in the future as I write more about England's past. Hugh and Dylan are Scotland and Wales. If you want to follow the trials and tribulations of England I roleplay him at .com. Also if you just want to harass me via asks to write stuff.. come and join us! That and you get first read of most of the Hetalia stuff I write._

In his London apartment Arthur watched speckles of water trail down glass. If he watched long enough he could entertain himself with picking a droplet and betting on it as it rolled down to the sill. Often he lost these 'bets' but it passed the time. In truth he hated it here; that was why outside of business he stayed at the residence as little as possible.

Still beggars couldn't be choosers and his home in the Oxfordshire countryside was naught but a pile of ash. Tomorrow he'd visit Dylan and see if he could get his assistance in starting the renovation process. There was no one other than himself that knew the house better; after all they had both lived in it together for so many years.

Of course at this time of year Dylan would be elbow deep in sheep… well he didn't want to imagine it. Whilst he had experience of his brothers' labouring he had immured himself in the city, politics and banks. Numbers held a fascination for him, so long as it meant money was not far behind. It was just like… back then, but now he plundered other's stocks and sold their homes from under their feet rather than held a flintlock to their face as he commandeered their vessel.

It was still and ugly business though.

It'd be nice to visit his brother's home.

Pushing out of the sofa – minimalistic and barely comfortable – he paced down the whitewashed wall. Then back again. Really there was nothing to do here, the flat stripped back to the very barest of basics. It was 'modern chic' and he detested it. Some of his visitors adored it though, he could never figure out why.

At length he threw himself onto the bed, flat on his stomach and clothed only in his union jack boxers. It had been a long day, his boss had lectured him at length about the troubles of the economy, about how the people would never be happy but decisions had to be made with the frugal finances they had. All of it made him long for a time he could have just gone and kicked that stupid Spaniard in the face and took a few of his galleons.

Life had been easier then…

_As unconsciousness took him strange colours began to merge, swirling until they formed an endless swaying field of grass. The sun was visible for once, warm rays bathing him and he felt relaxed. Then from the pit of his stomach fear began to uncurl as in the distance crimson swarmed into his vision._

_Turning he fled but he found he could not run fast on such short legs, his cloak getting caught behind him and tugging him back. Still the legions inexorably marched on, catching him slowly but surely. Feeling like his chest might explode and that he might vomit he kept running, he didn't understand, who were these people and what did they want?_

_Off in the distance his brothers stood watching… if only he could get to them._

_With a look of fierce determination Scotland launched a rock at the advancing hordes, drawing a dagger with a guttural growl._

"_Git off aur land ye pricks!"_

_Vision blurred as he finally reached them, Dylan protectively pulling him behind his legs. Warily the Romans came to a halt, staring at the three young nations._

"_Britannia!"_

_A fearful chant rattled shields that gleamed in the sun nearly blinding him. Other words he did not understand so he buried himself in Wales's cloak._

"_Did ye nae ken..? Fuck off!"_

_Launching himself at the soldiers the red head brandished the blade threateningly. Slashing at the first few he caught unaware. Soon he was overwhelmed though, he was but a teenager against an army of trained and hardened warriors. With a coarse laugh they pulled him away, separating him from the livid Wales and terrified England._

"_Hugh!"_

_Almost a shriek, he tried to fight through Dylan's legs to get at his eldest brother and somehow protect him._

"_Dinae let him! Protect him fer me!"_

_Fingers wound about his cloak, hauling him back as the Welshman fought him for ground. Another mutter of laughter rippled through the Roman army before dark shapes began to flit through the trees. Druids. Clouds began to fill the sky, a chill rising as the tang of magic occupied the air. Alarm and misgivings were whispered before a man stepped forth, tanned and imperious._

_Whatever he muttered was not a language that he could understand but the intonation was clear. 'We'll be back."_

_Tears swelled and spilled down his cheeks as he saw Hugh being dragged away._

_Later they would build a wall and name it after their Emperor. They would lock Hugh away behind it out of fear or convenience._

_Fiercely Wales had glared at them until he was sure they had left, before taking his little brother in his arms to comfort him._

Bed drenched with sweat he awoke abruptly. Well that was, unusual. In his nightmares it was usually the final battles of the American Revolution or the terror of the Blitz that he relieved. It had been a very long time since he'd been visited by that scene. After all in the end England had come to like the Roman Empire, the roads it had taught him how to build, the technology. That day though he had been terrified and had only wanted to stay with his brothers.

Shakily he showered and dressed, finding after a cup of breakfast tea he felt much better. Well none of that mattered anymore; he was off to see modern day Wales who would smell like sheep, the countryside and a hard day's graft. Who would probably curse at him, speak an infuriating language and make him forget there had ever been a time he had cried himself to sleep at the thought of losing him as well as Scotland to the invading armies.

Still he was glad to get out of London.

Hours later he was a little sore and perhaps not so glad but the view from the castle was spectacular, he had to admit. Often he found that he would talk to fill Dylan's quietness. Many times he had expected his older brother to rage and disown him when he had pulled him into battle after battle; Dylan had just quietly agreed. Often he felt he didn't understand him very well at all…

It seemed that today was one of those days as the cushion was shoved into his hands.

For once he was speechless. It was very rare for them to exchange gifts. If he was feeling especially nice he'd sent Dylan a bouquet of daffodils on St David's day and of course for Christmas but this was new. Heat reached his cheeks as his brother strode away, pausing for a moment before he tried to run after him to thank him.

Perhaps some things never changed…

_Beneath the boughs of mighty oak trees wooden swords clattered. In the distance Dylan watched almost sleepily._

"_One day I'll beat you Hugh!"_

_Almost violently England surged forwards, lifting the sword up above his head as he valiantly charged down the eldest of his brothers._

"_Ach looket ye Artie, yer so open I ked swing a needle and still hit ye."_

_With an amused smile the Scotsman swung down, jarring short limbs in a way intended to be painful. If it didn't hurt a little Arthur would never learn. Dropping the sword the blonde retracted, rubbing at sore wrists, a few tears springing into his vision._

"_Dylan…"_

_With a wail he threw himself upon the Welshman's frame, loud sobs making words inaudible. England was still only a child and sometimes Scotland was too rough. Green eyes met over the blonde head, fingers threaded through rough strands as Wales merely shook his head as Hugh approached. Fingers were pulled away at the protective expression rapidly appearing on his Dylan's face._

_It was always Dylan Arthur ran to, a sour expression offered for a second before a smile returned. Wales had begun to sing to quieten the weeping child and even Scotland had to admit the soft tones were one of the most beautiful things he had heard. Sweaty and hot he dropped down into the shade to relax with his brothers. One day Arthur would run to him, he was sure and he'd lift him up high above his shoulders until he squealed with fright and laughter._

_From the moment England had first burst into their life they had secretly sworn to raise and protect him as best they could._

_Then the Romans had come._

_And Scotland had been locked behind the wall._

_Wales for his part had fought bravely and terrorised the legions for long years until he too had been captured._

_Weeks had passed, pale and puffy eyed he appraised the wall again._

_Hugh was on the other side all he wanted to do was to get through it._

_England had taken his first life, despite the warlike nature of his reputation his hands had not been stained with the blood of a human. Then he had killed the first, war raging along the borders as he trembled in terror, stained with the crimson fluid that rained down upon him._

"_LET HIM OUT!"_

_Screams went unchecked as nails dug into hewn stone, trying to tear the barrier between himself and Hugh away. Yet he could remove the wall just as easily as he could defeat his brother. Tiny hands did not hold the strength and instead he clawed until blood smeared in long rakes down the surface._

_All alone, he was all alone._

_Why were they not coming to help him? To comfort him?_

_Slow years passed. With no other choice Arthur had begun to learn from his captors, to understand their language and society. Even as a representative it would have taken a hard man to ignore the injured screams of a terrified child and so Salonius had taken him in and shown him texts of law and society._

_Deprived of his brother's guiding hands and so very innocent when Salonius had told him Hugh was a bad, vile barbarian who had been locked away for his safety Arthur had believed it. At first he had denied it, violently tried to tear away from the Roman's influence but still he whispered the vile words. Hugh never loved him, Hugh wished he didn't exist. Hugh and his people were little more than animals._

_The Roman had thrown up his hands and had indicated to everything that now surrounded Arthur, the stone architecture, the literacy, the culture. How could a man so learned tell him such lies?_

_So together they had travelled north, through the wall to find Hugh. Clad in the armour of the Roman legion Arthur had grown, he was no longer resembled a boy of 6 but now was on the verge of spilling into teenaged awkwardness._

_Through the moors and heather they crossed the land, the people wild, painted humans that hissed at them and cursed them. Scared Arthur had pressed closer to his mentor. Then they had found him._

_Years had changed Scotland too, not quite a man but no longer a child either, wildness in emerald eyes making Arthur hold his breath._

_Perhaps the Roman had been right…_

_Then Hugh had attacked them, seeming half crazed, violent. Slamming him into the ground again and again until breath had left his body and blood tainted pale lips. Unconscious had swallowed him as blows continued to fall._

_Bloodied hands had pulled away the helmet to look upon the defeated invader, vomit swelling into Hugh's mouth as pale blonde strands spilled from under metal. Arthur. The precious little brother he was training so hard for. One day he'd rescue him and Dylan both, he'd sworn it upon his life._

_Yet what was the meaning of this?_

_Arthur, he was one of them now? It was a mistake, a horrible, horrible mistake and weeping openly he held the small, frail body to himself._

"_What're ye doing ye fool... ye... stupid fuck..."_

_Rocking the broken frame panic seized him, what if Arthur never woke up? What if he'd broken him permanently? Hauling the body up onto his shoulders he trudged back the way they'd come. Progress was slow and silent; several times he had to stop legs trembling. Eventually the hated wall came into view. Still it was for the best, he could not heal Arthur's wounds and if his younger brother really had sided with the Romans what more could he do?_

"_Here ye fucks have him back!"_

_Dropping the small body before the wall he ran, conflicting emotions of jealousy and anger warring with self-pity and disgust. How could the boy he and Dylan had raised so tenderly give his soul to Rome? Why had England never tried to break down the wall? Why had England never escaped into his arms?_

_No England was the one at fault here, not Scotland._

_So why did that little voice in his head keep blaming him?_


	2. The Price Of Love

_I wasn't sure whether this ought to be a standalone story or a second chapter. In the end I'd made it a second chapter as it is British Trio related, despite heavily leaning into the relationship of England and France. To yoong I can confirm that I have intentions to add drabbles with both Ireland and Northern Ireland's representatives when I come across them. I've actually missed out a fairly large chunk of British history where Norway settled in Northern England and Scotland and Germanic tribes invaded Southern England. I might go back and clear those up along with the Auld Alliance (Scotland x France) which is alluded to but not specifically mentioned. As always reviews make my muses happy... and thank you to everyone who favourite and followed this fic. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Well… sort of enjoy!_

Huddled close to flames fingers crafted to wage war had combed through straggly golden locks. In the brief moments of peace Norway had spoken of a vast, icy wilderness that no one could penetrate. Sometimes he had spoken of magical creatures and old legends. Occasionally, rarely he had spoken of his family. England had found himself quite content, happy even. Across the fire from them lay a silent form, his eldest brother. Whether he listened to Norway's words was unclear but his mere presence elated Arthur.

Hugh was back, that was all that mattered.

Arthur adored him, revered him almost.

So as their eyes met across the field of battle he felt as though he had been plunged into the unforgiving wilderness of childhood fairy tales. Ice swallowed his throat, working its way up until it engulfed his head. The implications, the betrayal; Hugh was fraternising with -the enemy-. Plunged into silent shock he could feel the roar of emotion clawing at his throat, threatening to be released as a scream. Yet lips did not part.

Heat gathered along blonde lashes, fists forming and then shaking with the force of emotions swirling through his body.

No, this couldn't be happening.

Then **he** appeared.

France.

Everything could be traced directly back to that man. Every woe, every hurt, everything. Where love had once flourished bitter hatred had begun to take hold. How small the divide between such powerful emotions. One to cherish, the other to destroy. Just as tears threatened to spill over lashes he saw another figure. A woman, no, she was little more than a girl. A single, insignificant human, stood between the men who he most idolised in the world.

Artistic fingers touched her shoulder, a gesture he recognised as Francis leant in to smooth short hair behind her ear. Moves he had been subject to when he had caught the Frenchman's eye. France would smile and it would seem as though she were the only person alive worth smiling at. For a while it wouldn't matter, it was easy to lose oneself in the sweet worlds and gentle touches.

Francis loved, he just loved too much.

Agonising sorrow overturned to bubbling resentment, jealousy burning a hot path to his core. Who was this mere woman who could bring such light to his lover's eyes? For Arthur had yet to accept that Francis was not his. Whoever she was he would not tolerate her presence. That smile, those eyes, they could only belong to him.

Capturing her had been difficult; she had proven to be a worthy foe and a fierce warrior. It was something almost worth respecting, had he been capable of feeling anything other than overwhelming resentment towards her. Countries were not meant to love humans and every time he imagined Frances's hands caressing her he felt queasy and raw. What did this woman have that he did not? Why did France love her and not him?

Humans were weak, easy to control. All it took was enough wealth and one could purchase treason.

The right words, the right people, the right price. Arthur had found them all. Men weak enough to turn against their beloved country; men greedy enough to sell her life away.

Everyone had their price.

Even imprisoned she had defied them, leaping from the tower to earn her freedom. Some things were inevitable though and as money changed hands she had become his captive.

The one time he had visited her she had been clad as though a man. Wild, beautiful and dangerous. Just a human, a single, insignificant human. It was her eyes though; they called to him, stirring doubt from deep within.

"Sir, is it a crime to love one's country?"

England found he had no answer; none had loved him as fervently as she loved France.

As fervently, blindly and madly as he loved France.

Blood splattered in tiny flecks across the stone courtyard, the small frame wildly rearing back as his strong hands grasped at his collar and throttled him. Fingers lashed up tearing at his face as England's shoulder blades slammed against the wall. Breath wheezed out, rattling, angry thrusts driving the body into the unrelenting surface.

"She's jist a bairn! A little girl! Wit are ye doing?"

Hugh was frantic, angry – after all the girl he had promised to protect with his life lay in England's hands. Dark laughter bubbled up from within, bloodied hands wrapping around his throat, murderous intent evident in England's eyes.

"You speak to me as though you're not parting your thighs to the enemy."

Emotions tumbled through Hugh's eyes, guilt, anger and sorrow. When had his beloved little brother become so twisted? The Arthur he had known would not consider such actions as justified. The Arthur he had known had been a naïve and innocent little boy that had run to Dilan crying when he'd been bruised.

"How could you be so close to that man who has done such things to me? To your own brother!"

Words were hissed venomously, though blonde lashes glistened with the threat of tears. Fingers lost their strength and lofted, taking hold of his cheeks. England was his little brother still, scared, alone and hurting. Perhaps he could avert the disaster; perhaps if he appealed gently Arthur would change his course.

"Arthur if ye go ahed wit this plan ye'll be nae brother of mine."

Heat and agony bloomed from his abdomen, barely daring to look down; still he felt the knife twist. Crazed emerald eyes watched dispassionately as his hands covered the wound, pressing tight to staunch the flow of blood. Arthur was gone, there was no saving him and no saving her. Hugh could have wept but for the agony that froze all of his emotions. How had everything become so distorted? Was this what love did? All it had to offer was insanity and depravity? As he sunk into his knees he felt slick fingers tight in his hair, wrenching his head back.

"Any man who would stand by **his** side is no brother of mine."

Then he was flung to meet the stonework, vision blurring as his brother stepped over him and left him to whatever the fates had in store.

"I don't care what you charge her with, I want her dead. Do you understand? Ceased. No longer living. Slaughtered. **DEAD**."

Swift steps brought Dilan closer to his irate brother, reaching out to seize his wrist. Digging in his heels the momentum swung them together, face to face.

"Please Arthur, please don't do this."

A hand lifted, a soft touch tracing the dark shadow of a bruise upon his little brother's cheek. Hugh and Arthur had fought in the past but he'd never known the violence escalate to the point that a blade had been drawn. It worried him; Hugh had been almost inconsolable as he had propped him up and led him away from the blood stained cobbles.

"I'm asking you, please don't do this. I'll talk to Hugh, we'll protect you, we'll stand with you."

For a moment Dilan had thought he could see Arthur's resolve waiver. After all he was still their little brother, he still needed them. Teeth met a cut lip, worrying it, emerald eyes full of pain lifting to greet him. Dilan wanted to take him in his arms once more, comfort him and whisper that everything would be alright.

Except it wouldn't. The hunger for acceptance and love faded in Arthur's eyes as he watched. Arthur didn't trust him, he didn't trust anyone. The hurt went too deep for him to soothe away as he had in years gone by, when he could calm the sobbing child with soft singing.

"Oh Arthur..."

What could he do? Dilan had no choice but to stand by him, even when all others had abandoned England he found he could not, even when his little brother was about to commit so heinous a crime.

They had condemned her, branded her a heretic and on 30 May 1431 at the Vieux-Marché in Rouen they had burnt her, trice, to make sure naught of her remained.

Over the flames green eyes met blue.

Whatever he had expected the haunted expression that dulled Francis's eyes had shocked him. Always so full of light and love he looked defeated, lost and distraught. This wasn't how it was meant to be. Something, anything would have been better. Some sign that he was significant in the Frenchman's eyes, yet there was nothing and he felt hollow and nauseous. Hugh stood silently shoulder to shoulder with his lover and when tears began to trail down pale features Hugh had led him away.

Everything was over.

"I'm sorry!"

Raw screams went unanswered, the weight of murder crushing down onto his shoulders. Hugh and Dilan had tried to warn him, such sacrifices were not lightly made. Driven by hatred he had been deaf, arrogant, weighing human life as worthless and a commodity to trifle with.

Wrong, he'd been utterly wrong.

The next time they had met France had lashed out at him, desperately trying to rip his throat out. The hatred within blue eyes echoed the scorn he felt for himself. Still he could not deny the spark of excitement. Francis finally saw him again, even hatred was better than nonchalance. Hatred was a powerful emotion that they could share and indulge in, lose themselves in.

Hatred was better than nothing.


End file.
